The Weekenders
by Mary James
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale take a trip, to Las Vegas.


Disclaimer- None of the characters depicted are mine, all Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman's.

_The Weekenders_

* * *

Aziraphale couldn't truthfully say that he didn't have any regrets. He'd always felt that leaving France during the revolution had been a mistake. Watching the great empire of Rome tremble, shake, and then finally collapse on itself had been miserable, but a long time coming. And then there were the wars, the crusades, all the death in the name of the Lord.  
And Las Vegas. How had Las Vegas been allowed to slip past unnoticed?

* * *

Oh, the lights. Crowley loved the lights. The flashing neon that burned into the soul and advertised places like "Luck O' The Irish", "The Money Pit", and "Madame le Rout's Kitty Kat Klub (World Class Topless Girls!)" It filled the eyes, and the brain was gorged on pulsating slogans of greed, sleaze, and gluttony (All you can eat shrimp and steak for five dollars?! The mind boggles.).

* * *

For a few moments the angel thought he may, in fact, be ill all over his companion's stylish shoes. Was it really necessary for someone to deep fry an Oreo? He turned to Crowley, who was holding what appeared to be crusted goo on a popsicle stick.

"What is that?" was all he could manage.  
"Cheese. Delicious, deep-fried, cheese on a stick." Crowley took a bite, and the cheese pulled into a long string that swung back and forth precariously until Crowley's tongue darted out and pulled it in.  
Aziraphale made a noise of disgust. "I don't think I can handle anymore of this."  
"Nonsense. We haven't even seen the light show yet! Or the giant golden nugget!"  
"Ugh." Aziraphale commented. "Fremont Street makes my brain ache."  
"Come, come angel. It's not all that bad." Crowley finished off the cheese monstrosity with a messy slurp and grinned at him. Aziraphale looked as if he might gag.

"Now there, you haven't even seen the hotel yet."  
"I pray they don't serve fried foods."  
Crowley put on his most serious face. "Of course not. Only the finest cuisine for your delicate palate."  
Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously, and Crowley just flashed him a toothy smile.

* * *

"I want to get pissed. I want to get ridiculously wasted amid all this splendor. On very expensive champagne." Crowley flung open the curtains and opened the veranda doors, letting in the cool night air of the desert.

"These sheets are more expensive than the whole bookshop I think." Aziraphale observed from the bed, rubbing the fine fabric between his fingers absently.

"Where's the phone? I'm ordering whatever costs the most. Lots of it."  
"I think I'll just drink in bed." Aziraphale decided.  
"Have you tried the couch?" Crowley murmured, from the couch.

An hour and six and a half glasses each of champagne later, they had decided that drinking in the enormous bathtub was an altogether better idea. With bubbles. The bathroom now smelled entirely of lilac.

"My fingers 're all pruny." Crowley stretched a hand out in front of him.  
Aziraphale was peering through the bubbles. "I think more than my fingers are pruny." he said, nearly slopping champagne into the bath as he leaned forward.  
Crowley leered drunkenly. "Heh. Pruny…"

Aziraphale stood up abruptly, this time sloshing half his glass into the tub, and stumbled out into the bedroom. Crowley was decidedly startled, not being ready for such sudden movements in his current state of drunkenness, and managed a few careful moments later to climb out of the bath without slipping and crashing to his death.

The angel was lying on the bed, a nearly empty glass still in hand, eyes half closed. He looked up when Crowley crashed into the floor lamp next to the doorway and proceeded to leap around on one foot for a few seconds.

"Ow! Buggering arse, shit, ow!"  
"Crowley."  
"What?" he looked up, exasperated and still in slight pain. Aziraphale was looking at him. Like that. Like he was sober and wearing that expression Crowley knew after several years now of seeing it on the angel's face. That one. It took Crowley under 30 seconds to sober up himself.  
"It's the sheets, isn't it?"  
"Oh not completely…" Aziraphale grinned slyly.  
"Liar." Crowley crawled over top of him.  
"They're very nice sheets…"  
"Mmmm, I know. Be quiet."  
"I wonder what thread count they are?" Aziraphale twined his fingers absentmindedly through Crowley's hair. It smelled like lilac.  
"Angel." Crowley breathed, placing decisive kisses along his jaw line.  
Aziraphale sighed contentedly "Crowley…" he murmured, letting it come out almost like a sigh itself, and pulled the sheets around them.

* * *

There was a knock at the door, and the warm weight next to him was suddenly gone. Crowley listened as quiet voices spoke in the foyer and things were shuffled around. He heard Aziraphale come back into the bedroom, and felt the mattress dip as he settled back into bed.  
Crowley rolled over. There was a tray.

"What's all this?" he asked with a yawn.  
"Breakfast." Aziraphale was pouring two cups of tea, one of which he handed over, and then offered Crowley a plate of eggs and toast, which the demon accepted gratefully.  
"Breakfast in bed? Someone's feeling a little slothful this morning." Crowley observed, with a mouth full of egg.  
"Well, it's just that it's a very comfortable bed. The sheets, you know? Shame to waste it." He admitted sheepishly. "And don't talk with your mouth full dear."  
"I never knew you to be so turned on by the domestic." Crowley took another bite of toast and chewed thoughtfully. "What happened to hating Las Vegas?"  
"It's not quite as loathsome as I originally thought. Did you see there's a beautiful Monet exhibit at the Bellagio through Sunday."  
"Hmmm, yes I saw that." Crowley replied, if not a bit distractedly. "But don't you think it'd be a real waste of sheets if we weren't to just lay in bed all day?"  
Azriaphale leaned back into the pillows, nearly getting lost in the bedding. "I suppose you're right. We do still have champagne…"  
Crowley sat the tray on the floor and reached over, wrapping an arm around Aziraphale's waist and pulled him closer.  
"It's only Friday angel, lets go back to bed. Then maybe I'll buy you your very own cheese on a stick." Crowley chuckled to himself.

And Aziraphale kissed him, if only to stop himself from thinking about the cheese, but mostly because Crowley deserved it.


End file.
